


Black Out

by Macx



Category: due South
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 03:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macx/pseuds/Macx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser looked his way.<br/>The man turned slightly.<br/>Then a shot echoed through the warehouse, but it wasn't the man Ray had in his line of sight who had shot.<br/>Like in slow motion Ray saw his friend being thrown backwards, one hand reaching for his head. He fell into the window, which broke under his impact and disappeared from sight.<br/>"Fraser!" the detective cried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Out

**Author's Note:**

> written way back in 1995

"Do you really think this is such a good idea, Fraser?"

Benton Fraser looked through the windshield of the Buick Riviera, studying the waterfront warehouse with a frown. "I don't know, Ray," he then answered his friend's question.

"Someone contacts you through a mysterious letter, tells you that he wants to meet you here and all you have to say is 'I don't know'," Vecchio lamented. "This could be either an elaborate hoax or a trap, y'know."

"Correct, it could be a trap, but if the information in the letter is real, then we might be able to solve a complicated case, Ray," Fraser informed him. "You've been chasing Kerrington for over three years now and this might be the clue you've been waiting for."

"Maybe," the other man admitted reluctantly. "But why would someone contact you instead of me?"

Fraser shrugged.

The police detective sighed. "Okay, okay. Just be careful. I'll be close by in case something happens."

The Canadian got out of the car, put on his hat and walked over to the green painted warehouse. Though it was early in the afternoon there was no soul in sight on the whole quay. Ray's eyes swiveled over the premises, alert for suspicious movements or concealed men. There was nothing of that kind anywhere. The lake glittered in the late afternoon sun, a boat passed by, the Diesel engine the only sound beside the surf. It was eeriely silent.

 _This is crazy_ , he decided. He was the police officer of this team, not Fraser. Fraser was only a deputy liaison officer from the Canadian consulate and his part-time partner. Okay, so he was a Canadian police officer, but that didn't necessarily mean he would be the first choice to meet the contact. That the contact had wanted Fraser to be the one to meet him was a bit of a surprise. How did he know about Fraser? Ray and Ben had met only a few months ago and though the Mountie was well-known in the precinct, Ray doubted that someone from the streets would contact him of all people. Sure, okay, street people did contact him, but mostly because of minor things; never because of a nation wide known hit man!

He watched as Fraser disappeared inside the green warehouse and leaned back. He had a bad feeling about all of this. A very bad feeling. Something was bound to go terribly wrong; he just knew it.

 

*

 

Benton Fraser entered the warehouse and looked around. There were several shelves crammed inside, all containing various parts for  
ships, some nets, and other stuff. Everything was very quiet and only the surf could be heard from a distance. The mysterious letter had told him to meet the contact at the far end, behind the shelves. Fraser walked down an aisle, all senses alert for danger. He arrived at the told place without incident. From the sound and strong  
smell of it he was right above the lake. Part of the warehouse was built on poles, which stood directly in the water. A grimy window gave him a good view of Lake Michigan.

"You're Fraser?" a voice interrupted his thoughts and he turned.

"Yes."

The man stepping out of the shadow eyed him suspiciously. "You don't look like a Mountie."

Fraser spread his hands. He wasn't wearing his uniform and the only thing that really told an insider what he was, was the hat. At first he had worn his uniform, the bright red dress uniform. Ray, who had picked him up, had nearly thrown a fit when he had seen him. Fraser had volunteered to exchange the red for the dark brown uniform, and Ray had rolled his eyes heavenwards, muttering something about hardheads and Canada. In the end Ben had ended up wearing civil clothes.

"I left the uniform at home," he told the man. "You are the one who sent me the letter?"

The man nodded. He was of medium height, with brown hair and dark eyes. He was casually dressed and somehow looking non-descript. "Yes. I have some very important information."

"Concerning Paul Kerrington. Yes, you wrote that in the letter. Why did you contact me and not the police?"

The man laughed humorlessly. "The police? They'd arrest me without questions and put me behind bars for life."

Fraser gave him a curious look, but said nothing.

"Listen, I'm in the explosives business and had an order for something very special from Kerrington. Special explosives for something big." The man looked over his shoulder and scanned the aisles. There was no one. "He accepted a new target, someone in high places. He came to me for the ammo and explosives."

"Why are you telling me all of this? What changed your mind? It looks like you are quite well-versed in the black market."

The man smiled dryly. "I got cold feet, Constable Fraser. It's getting too dangerous and I'm not getting younger. I want out of the business while I'm still alive and able to."

"Do you know who is his target?" Fraser asked, accepting the explanation.

 

*

 

On the other side of the warehouse, out of Ray's immediate line of sight, a large, blue van pulled up. Behind the wheel of the van sat an Asian woman. She turned off the engine.

"We're here," she announced.

One of her two passengers, a man in a business suit, looked through the windshield at the warehouse. "I hope you're right about Cantworth. I'd hate to loose him. Damn good bomb expert."

She gave him a cold look. "My information are always correct, Kerrington."

He smiled amiably at her, then turned to the second man. "Take a look around, Hank. I want to know where Cantworth is. Don't do anything. He's mine."

Hank nodded and got out of the van.

 

*

 

The contact, Cantworth, chewed his lower lip. "I want amnesty, okay?"

"I can't grant you anything, since I'm not of the Chicagoan police force," Ben began.

"Just promise me, okay? I heard about you. A promise is enough."

"I promise I'll do anything possible to help you," he said honestly.

The man nodded. "That's good enough a promise for me, coming from a Mountie." He grinned again.

"What about Kerrington now? What do you know about the hit?"

"I'm a specialist concerning explosives," the contact said, again looking nervously around. "Not just a few pounds of plastics or dynamite. Real special stuff. I developed a very flexible material for Kerrington, something you can weave into anything."

Fraser looked blankly at him.

"Imagine someone placing a coat or a jacket somewhere. It's not suspicious, no one would think of it as a bomb. They could search the piece of cloth and would find nothing at all."

The Canadian stared at him. That was an incredible concept. Weaving a bomb ....

"And Kerrington now has the bomb?" he finally asked.

"Yes. He's planning to kill a whole bunch of diplomats at a funeral tomorrow afternoon."

"A funeral?" Fraser echoed.

"Yes, of someone important. Lotsa high places people at the funeral. I think I remember someone saying it was a liaison officer or something."

Fraser thought. Hadn't his superior mentioned something like a funeral he had been informed of and wanted to attend? He chewed his lower lip. Yes, now he remembered. The liaison officer of the Americans to the foreign consulates had died a few days ago. He was supposed to be buried tomorrow afternoon. Every consulate had received a note and the Canadian consulate had decided to take part. If someone planted a bomb .... it would an international disaster!

 

*

 

Hank returned a few minutes later and closed the door of the van behind him. "Cantworth is inside. He's talking to someone."

"That must be his contact." Kerrington reached for a small compartment in the dashboard, getting out his gun. "It'll be the last he ever has." He turned to Hank. "Let's go."

 

*

 

Fraser had been gone for about ten minutes when two men approached the warehouse. They appeared suspicious to Ray's professional eyes, as both were looking constantly around. When one of the two pulled out a gun, Ray's alarm bells began to shrill loudly. With a curse he got out of the car, reaching for his own gun. Then he ran over to the warehouse, where the two men had disappeared in. Cautiously he approached the door, gun ready, and listened. Nothing. Still cautious, he opened the door, peering inside. It wasn't very dark, but not light enough to see everything either. There were shadows around the shelves and in the corners. Ray stepped inside. As he walked carefully toward the rear end, knowing that Fraser was supposed to meet the contact there, he heard footsteps.

Then there was a shot, followed by shouts.

Vecchio ran to where he heard the shot and shouts from, all the time hoping that this had nothing to do with Ben. _Then again_ , he thought dryly, _when didn't anything have to do with Fraser?_

 

*

 

"Until we arrest Kerrington, it would the safest for you if you came with me. My friend, Detective Vecchio, can arrange for you to be kept safeguarded until everything is over," Fraser told the nervous man.

Cantworth smiled a bit. "I think I would be safest with you, don't you?"

Before Fraser could reply, a shot rang through the warehouse. Cantworth's eyes reflected surprise as he crumbled to the floor, a large red stain on his chest. Another shot chipped some wood out of the shelf just left of Fraser. He turned, eyes wide with surprise and a bit of shock. He discovered a man coming down toward him, gun ready.

Within seconds Fraser decided that there was only one way out. The window. Ray might complain that he always took the windows to leave a room, but this time it was truly the only way. If he ran for the door he would encounter the shooter.

Suddenly there was a shout.

"Police!"

Ray! He turned back, his back to the window, seeing Ray coming toward him.

It was a mistake. He discovered a second man, coming toward his position from the right side.

The man lifted his gun.

A shot rang in the warehouse.

Pain exploded in his head.

He fell backward, his back connecting with the grimy window.

The last thing he consciously heard was the breaking of glass, then there was only cold nothingness.

 

*

 

Ray was running down an aisle when he discovered Ben. He was close to a large window and there was a man coming toward him, a gun in his hand.

"Police!" Ray shouted, lifting his own gun.

Fraser looked his way.

The man turned slightly.

Then a shot echoed through the warehouse, but it wasn't the man Ray had in his line of sight who had shot.

Like in slow motion Ray saw his friend being thrown backwards, one hand reaching for his head. He fell into the window, which broke under his impact and disappeared from sight.

"Fraser!" the detective cried.

The other man used this moment to dodge between two shelves and disappear. Ray had momentarily forgotten about him, but when a bullet hit a crate right beside him, he went for cover, returning the gun fire. Someone shouted to get out of here. There was a short silence, then he heard footsteps, running away from him. Cautiously he peered over the rim of the crate he had taken cover behind. Then he followed the men.

He was just about to reach the door when the window beside the door splintered under the impact of a small object. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he recognized what it was that now lay only a few feet away from him.

Grenade.

 _Run!_ his mind screamed and he ran for his cover again.

There was an explosion.

A wave of heat and flames threw him into a bundle of nets and boat covers.

Then there was only darkness.

 

*

 

The second he broke through the surface of the water, his senses went on overload. Everything around him was icy cold, wet and numbingly dark. His head hurt viciously and his eyes were unable to fix on anything. He fought to the surface, gasping for air, his head exploding in unbearable pain. The surf of the lake washed over him, trying to drown him. He swam against the waves, survival instincts taking over. Something passed through his line of view. Something big. He heard a low, rumbling noise, like a large Diesel engine. A round, black object passed by. His mind made a connection between the round object and rescue and his hands reached out to grab it. He was pulled along with the ship he was clinging to.

 _Get aboard_ , his mind screamed and slowly, very slowly he was able to climb aboard. He fell over the reeling, gasping still, his head swimming. Nausea washed over him and he groaned. He was falling deeper and deeper into the velvety blackness of unconsciousness and he had no will left to fight it.

Behind him, part of the warehouse collapsed in a small explosion of dust and wood.

 

*

 

Paul Kerrington watched emotionlessly as the front part of the green warehouse crumbled like a card house. The grenade was very effective, he mused, though he didn't like it as a weapon. Too crude. No finesse.

"That'll take care of the other guy," Hank remarked with a satisfied grin.

"What about the contact of Cantworth?"

"I got him. Fell out of the window. Drowned for sure."

Kerrington walked over to the pier, not minding the slightly smoking ruin. There were no flames. He wasn't so sure the man was dead. It wouldn't be the first time that one of his victims' helpers had made a miraculous escape. Human nature had an uncanny survival instinct.

A boat passed by the warehouse -- and hanging on to an old tire was a man. Cantworth's contact.

"I'll be damned," Hank muttered, watching with Kerrington as the man climbed laboriously aboard the ship, then collapsed.

" _Gambit_ ," Kerrington read. "The name of the ship is _Gambit_. Get on the phone and find me the home harbor of it. They're all registered."

Hank nodded and went back to the van. Kerrington followed a few seconds later. In the distance he could hear sirens. Someone had called the police.

 

* * *

 

The _Gambit_ left the Chicagoan harbor and set course for Wind's Fall, its home harbor. Susan Scott steered the little ship expertly through the waters of the lake and only once glanced at the sea chart. She knew her way home by heart, since she did this tour once a week, maybe twice. She owned a small delivery service, which did deliveries or pick-ups for people. This time she had picked up some things for an old friend, whose boat had broken down and had needed repairs. Since the only place where he could get the missing parts was the large harbor shop in Chicago, Susan had volunteered to get them for him, in exchange for a few favors on his part. That's how things went in Wind's Fall.

It would be early morning tomorrow when she reached the waters of the small town and she switched on her position lights because it was already getting dark. It had been a long day and it would be an equally long night. Her boat wasn't the fastest and she couldn't race home.

A noise made her flinch and she strained her ears. Was something wrong with the engines? Please, god, no. Not in the middle of the lake! The noise repeated itself, but this time she could be sure it had nothing to do with the engine. It sounded more like something heavy falling around on deck. She had nothing heavy stored on deck......

Carefully, she turned down the engine until she was creeping along on the water, and listened. The surf was softly beating against the boat's hull. The engine gave off some low rumbling sounds. There! Again. It sounded like heavy footsteps. Fear gripped her and she reached out for a crowbar she always kept close by. Being the only one aboard this ship, and female, too, was sometimes dangerous when you got into the wrong company. Until now she had been quite well able to handle herself. She was the widow of Zachary Scott and everybody who had tried to mess with her had been shown she was no one to be easily messed with, especially when the deceased husband had trained her in self-defense. She might be 49, but she was still fit enough to hit an attacker where it hurt the most.

The door to the steering house opened and she tensed, slowly turning, crowbar in hand. A man leaned at the door's frame. He was clad in wet looking clothes and the left side of his face was covered with blood, which was flowing copiously out of a head wound. One hand clutched the door handle, the other one the door's frame for support. She lifted the crowbar like a sword.

"Help me, please," the man whispered.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" she demanded, pleased to hear that her voice was not wavering.

A pair of confused eyes looked at her. "I ... I don't know, " he stuttered, taking a step forward.

"Stay where you are!" she commanded, brandishing the crowbar in front of her. It wasn't the first time someone mimicked an injury to enter a small boat and then rob it.

"Please," he whispered, sounding pathetic and weak. "I don't want to hurt you."

Somehow, she didn't know why, she believed him. But a small voice inside of her warned her. He could be dangerous after all.

"I'll make sure of that," she replied. "How did you get aboard?" she asked again.

"I ...." He blinked a few more times, swaying badly, then slid down the door frame, slumping into the corner.

Susan looked indecisively at the motionless figure. She should call for help. But she couldn't. The two-way radio was down and she needed more than just good will and chewing gum to repair it. Her technical skills were good for someone who hadn't been born a trawler owner. She could repair lots of the minor things, but try working a radio when the essential parts were missing or had been substituted with a bunch of whatever-it-was. She definitely needed a new radio and that was what she was to get in exchange for delivering the promised cargo. It had been a stupid and dangerous idea to go out with a broken down radio, but .... she hadn't imagined something like this to happen. It wasn't normal to find bleeding and wet stowaways on the boat.

Cautiously, she walked over. "Hello?" she asked.

The man didn't move.

She knelt down, touching his shoulder.

Again no reaction.

She turned his face so she could look at him. There was a long gash on his left temple, which was still bleeding slugishly, but had spread lots of blood all over his face before. There was blood on his light blue shirt, too. He was clad in a heavy, dark brown jacket and jeans, wearing dark brown boots. He looked quite handsome under all that blood, she decided, then giving herself a mental slap. _Right, that's the way to look at him._ He was an uninvited guest, maybe dangerous, and she was contemplating his looks.

Susan took out her handkerchief and pressed it down on the head wound. She was no doctor, neither had she more than rudimentary knowledge in first aid. She'd have to get him to Wind's Fall to get medical treatment.

 

* * *

 

It was already getting dark.

Ray Vecchio leaned against his car, an ice bag pressed against his head. He had one hell of a headache from a collision with the shelf and there was a dark bruise forming on his forehead already. Luckily it was only that, not some broken bones. He had been rescued by a team from the fire brigade, which had arrived first, closely followed by the police. He had been partly buried, since a shelf had fallen onto him. The fire brigade had freed him and then the paramedics had taken charge of what to do next. Ray knew he'd be bruised all over the next day.

Now he was watching a team of police specialists rummage through the ruin of the warehouse, while the fire brigade was just leaving. It had been pure luck that the warehouse had not burned down -- with him inside. If there had been any petrol stored inside the warehouse, maybe then he'd be Up There, harp in hand. Or Down Below, he mused with a wry smile crossing his lips. Either way, he was damn lucky to have survived the experience.

The paramedic, who had treated him, finished packing his bag. "You're fine, but you should see your doctor some time. You have a slight concussions and a few abrasions."

"Yeah," Ray waved him off. "I'm okay, I'm okay."

The paramedic shrugged, then trooped off. Ray returned his gaze back to the warehouse and witnessed as a body bag was carried over to the coroner's car. On the lake, a boat of the water police was searching the lake for a body.

 _Fraser._

Ray winced as he remembered how the Canadian had been thrown backwards by the shot, blood on his temple, breaking through the window.

The detectives Gardino and Huey were standing at the quay, watching the divers. There was no mistaking the two, especially since Gardino had one of those days were the tie clashed brightly with the shirt, which was in stark opposite colors to the jacket. You could go blind by merely glancing at him.

One of the rubber clad men with the oxygen tanks came up a ladder and handed them a wet something.

Fraser's Mountie hat.

A cold feeling spread inside him. _No_ , Ray decided, _I won't believe him dead. Not until I see a body._ The thought of seeing Fraser's dead body made him sick.

Huey took the hat and looked at it. It was soggy and disformed, but it was unmistakably Fraser's hat. The black detective turned to Ray.

"That Fraser's?" he asked neutraly, giving it to his colleague.

Ray simply nodded, looking into the muddy waters of the lake. He didn't dare to let the hope that the Mountie had survived the shot, the fall and the cold water rise further than a few inches. He just didn't dare, but it would need hard evidence, like a body, to convince him he was dead for sure.

"Anything else?" he finally asked the diver, his voice emotionlessly flat.

The man shook his head. "There isn't much light down here and it might take some time. But the currents are not very strong, though he's either here or he surfaced somewhere else." With that he swam back to the others.

Huey and Gardino watched as Ray played with the hat, still staring at the water, completely lost in whatever dark thoughts he contemplated.

"Welsh wants a full report on what happened, Ray," Jack Huey finally said calmly, interrupting the train of thought Vecchio was in.

"Yeah," was all he said, then turned abruptly and walked back to his car.

"Damn, I hope he survived the whole mess," Gardino muttered, watching Ray retreat, the turning back to the divers. "Would be a damned shame."

Huey only nodded. Yeah, it would be a damn shame -- and a big loss.

Ray was on his way back to his car when a horde of reporters swarmed toward him.

"Detective, what happened?" a blonde woman asked, thrusting a microphone under his nose.

"Was it an accident or the work of terrorists?" a man asked.

"Who is the man who was killed?"

"Who are you searching for, detective?"

Ray waved them off. "No comment," was all he said, then got into his car, placing Fraser's dripping wet hat onto the dashboard.

The reporters, like a flock of vultures, searched for a new victim and found it in form of Detective Huey. Ray smiled grimly and started his car. He had to go back to the precinct -- and then he had to take care of Fraser's wolf, Diefenbaker. They had left him at home for this, and Ray was damn glad they had done so.

 

* * *

 

Paul Kerrington sat down on a seat in the back of the van and took off the press ID.

"The missing man's name is Benton Fraser," he told his two helpers. "He's a liaison officer with the Canadian consulate, and he's also working with the police from time to time, especially one man: Detective Ray Vecchio." He grinned a bit. "Other reporters are often very helpful when it comes to unimportant details, as is the police itself."

He had taken the chance of the flock of reporters invading the premises of the harbor. They were good cover and one reporter asking dumb questions more or less wouldn't be noticed. The information he hadn't received from the police, he had extracted from one or two other reporters, especially the name of the officer working with Fraser. It looked like the Canadian had a reputation here and he had worked on some pretty interesting cases, too.

The Asian woman frowned. Her actual name was Kim; no one knew her last name. She was just 'Kim', one of the few people Kerrington used to work with regularly. "That's not exactly good news."

Kerrington nodded. "They haven't a clue where he is and he hasn't called in as far as I've heard."

"So he might be dead," Hank concluded.

"He might, yes. But we can't be sure. We know the name of the trawler, we just have to find it."

"I can't get any access to the net," the Asian woman said, gesturing at her satellite linked computer.

Kerrington raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean? This ship must be registered, so why can't you find it's home harbor?"

"I didn't say I couldn't find it. I said I can't get access to the net. Today is Sunday. The Harbor and Shipyards computer net is shut down over night on weekends, because it's a small one. I'll be able to access it tomorrow morning."

"Then it might be too late," the hit man said sourly. "The funeral is tomorrow afternoon. If this Fraser tells anyone about what happened, we don't have a chance to pull this mission off without great risk."

"If," Hank said, leaning back into his seat. "Maybe Cantworth didn't have time to tell him anything."

"Maybe, maybe," Kerrington echoed darkly. "But then again, he might have told him. We can't risk it. Too dangerous."

Kim shrugged. "Tomorrow morning," she only repeated. "Try yourself in patience."

Kerrington only muttered something uncomplimentary.

 

* * *

 

The _Gambit_ arrived one hour after sunrise. Susan steered the small, former trawler to her anchor place. As the ship slowly crept through the various anchored ships, she now and then stole a glance at her guest. The man hadn't woken while she had carried him over to her bunk, stripped him of the heavy, damp clothes and cleaned his head wound. The wound wasn't bad, though it looked like it had bled copiously, staining his shirt. She didn't think he would need stitches. While undressing him, she had contemplated who he might be. She hadn't seen him at the harbor where she had anchored and from his looks she didn't think he was a dock worker. The clothes didn't fit and a quick checking of his hands told her he might be used to heavy work, but the hands were too smooth to be the one of a dock worker. Maybe he was another fisherman who had fallen off his boat. Then again, he didn't appear like that, too.

Susan had tugged him into a woolen blanket, bandaging the wound and hanging his clothes beside an oven. She couldn't do anything else -- except watch if he came around to make trouble.

He was stirring slightly, his eyelids fluttering, when she arrived at her anchor place. A slight moan escaped his lips. She gripped the crowbar again, not taking any unnecessary risks. She was alone here and he was a stranger, who had entered her boat. He opened his eyes and blinked, staring at the ceiling above, then at the blanket covering him. Finally he turned his head and squinting at her.

"I'm not used to stowaways on my ship," she said brusquely as an introduction, part of her attention on where she was steering the ship. "And if we hadn't been in the middle of the lake, I would have thrown you over board."

"Oh," was all he said, then sat up slowly, clutching the blanket. He grimaced and gingerly touched his head, and Susan believed that he had one hell of a headache. "I'm glad you didn't do it," he then said, carefully rubbing his head. "I don't think I can swim that far."

"What were you doing on my boat?"

His eyes traveled from the crowbar to her face and he wrinkled his brow a bit, though it meant pain again.

"I don't know. I ... I won't hurt you," he said slowly, his voice a bit unstable. He pointed at the crowbar.

"We'll see," she answered, then her expression softened a bit as he put his head in his hands, moaning a bit.

"Want some coffee? It might taste a bit like Diesel, but you look like you could use some."

"You don't happen to have some tea?" he asked, head still buried.

Susan was surprised. "Tea?" she echoed. "No, can't serve with that. Sorry."

"It's okay. Where am I?" he then asked, looking up.

"This is the _Gambit_ ," she answered, gesturing at the cabin and the ship as such with the crowbar. "My ship."

"Ship?" he echoed, as if he couldn't understand the word, looking bewildered. "How did I get here?"

"That's what I'd like to know too, Mister. I didn't find any ID on you. Either you didn't carry any or it was washed out of your pocket when you fell into the water."

"Fell ....?" He leaned back against the cabin's wall, still keeping the blanket wrapped tightly around himself.

She smiled to herself. He seemed a bit shy.

"I .... I remember someone shooting at me," he finally said, wonder in his voice.

"Shooting? Someone shot at you?" Her voice rose a bit.

He nodded.

"Listen, I'll get you to a doctor and he'll take a look at your head. Then you can go and see the police about this. This is all that concerns me." She tried to put on a hard, decisive expression.

He touched his head again, fingering the bandage she had put on the injury. "I'm sorry for troubling you with all of this," the dark-haired stranger said softly, truly meaning it.

Susan felt something inside of her melt as she looked at him. He looked downcast, stricken that he was the source of her trouble. It touched a protective streak inside of her.

"Forget it," she said gruffly, then smiled. "When I've secured the ship, we'll get a bite to eat for breakfast at Harry's. You look like you need something. You think you can make it there on your own two feet?"

The man nodded, then looked at the blanket. "My clothes ....?"

Susan smiled and gestured to a small oven just beside the door to the deck. She had hung his clothes there to dry.

"Did you ....?" he asked, gesturing at himself.

She nodded. "I'm the only one on this ship. And don't worry. I was married for over 25 years. I know how a male human body looks."

He blushed slightly. "Oh," was all he said. Then he climbed out of the bunk, blanket still clutched to his body, and got his clothes. As she turned, he gave her a look.

"Okay, okay," she muttered and turned around again as he started to dress. He was really kind of shy.

When he was done he came over to her and looked out of the windshield, studying the sight that presented itself to him. There were various small sport's boats and a lot of small trawlers anchored all around them. A lot of boats and ships were getting ready to get out on the lake to earn their living.

The man searched through his pockets and came up with some pieces of slightly crumbled paper. It was Canadian money and some coins, which were American.

"I don't think I've got more on me than that," he said slowly.

"Don't worry. I've got an account with Harry and he still owns me enough to pay a breakfast for two." She smiled. "By the way, my name's Susan Scott. Don't call me Sue or Suzy if you want to survive this trip all the way to the harbor," she added with some humor.

The man stared at her with a lost expression.

"I just introduced myself," she said patiently. "Wherever you come from, it's good manners to tell someone your name so you can be properly addressed." She raised an expectant eyebrow.

He stared through the window, confusion written plainly all over his pale face.

"I'd like to know how you're called," Susan pressed on.

"I'm ...." He frowned again. "My name ....." There was fear spreading over his features and a mixture of horror and panic flickered in his eyes. "I don't know my name," he finally whispered, staring at her as if he could will her to tell him who he was.

"You don't know your name?" Susan asked, a bit surprised. That was something she hadn't expected.

He nodded, the fear still keeping hold of him. "I can't remember," he then said slowly. "I just can't remember."

 

* * *

 

"What the _hell_ where you thinking off, Vecchio?"

The roar of anger rang through the small office cubicle of Lt. Harding Welsh, letting the only visitor flinch violently. Everyone in the squad room ducked their heads between the shoulders, as if the wave of anger was a physical apparition and could hit them, too, instead of the officer in question.

"You went to meet a contact. With no back-up. _Alone_." Ray wanted to say something, but Welsh cut in. "Except for the _Mountie_ ," he added sarcastically. "What's your excuse?"

Ray rubbed his eyes, wishing he could think clearly. He had a bad, sleepless night behind him, a night filled with nightmares about Fraser falling through the window. He had woken from the last nightmare at four, unable to return to sleep. After a long, but not very refreshing shower and no breakfast at all, except for a candy bar and a cup of coffee, Ray had come to the precinct. His stomach was queasy, the candy bar digesting not at all, and there was a whole tribe of dwarfs digging for gold inside his head.

He had taken a couple of aspirins to dim the pain throbbing behind his eyes, but it hadn't really helped. He felt sore from the fall he had taken in the warehouse, there was an uncomplimentary bruise forming on his forehead and his brain seemed to have swollen in size, judging from the pressure he felt inside his head. The worry about Fraser added to the splitting headache and soreness made him irritable and likely to snap at whoever was unlucky enough to cross his paths. Elaine had already felt his mood when she had asked about the Canadian. He had apologized a few minutes later, but he still felt bad.

He pulled himself together and faced Welsh. The lieutenant had called him into his office the moment Ray had walked into the squad room. Now he was sitting in his chair, leaning forward to watch his detective closely.

"The contact said he wanted to meet only with Fraser. No one else."

"Why?" the older man asked, his voice dangerously calm.

Ray licked his lips. "I don't know. Fraser said he didn't know the man. He only received this." He took out the letter Fraser had got yesterday and which he had left in the car. He handed it over to the lieutenant. "Fraser found this letter yesterday evening. The sender wanted to talk to him and only to him, sir. He called me and asked if I could drive him."

"And you agreed," Welsh concluded, reading over the piece of paper, then frowned. "Kerrington, huh?" He put down the letter on his desk, drumming his fingers on the top.

"Yes, sir."

"One of your old, unfinished cases."

"Yes, sir."

Welsh looked thoughtful. "Do we have any idea where Kerrington is right now?"

Ray shook his head. "No. He disappeared three years ago. We think we know some of the places he went to, but there's no real evidence."

"And now it looks like he might be back." Welsh's frown deepened. "I want a detailed report of what happened on the quay, Detective. There's a horde of reporters terrorizing my phone and it won't be long until they show up in person, so I want something I can tell them. And then get back at that computer. If Kerrington is here, I want him served on a silver platter!"

"Yes, sir."

Welsh frowned, rubbing his chin and looking thoughtfully at the letter. When he looked up, the anger was partly gone.

"Any sign of Fraser?" he wanted to know.

Ray shook his head, his eyes darkening. "The divers team searched the whole quay area. The currents are not strong enough to carry a body any further. Right now we're looking for him along the quay. Maybe he swam to the shore and is now wandering around the harbor area." A feeble hope, he knew. Why hadn't Fraser called when he had come out of the water? Even if he had no change, he would have been able to reach Ray somehow.

Welsh only nodded. "Get on it, Detective," he then ordered.

"Yes, sir." Ray exited the office, inhaling deeply after the door had closed after him.

Benny was missing, maybe dead.

Cantworth was dead for sure.

Kerrington was back in town.

A grim expression settled on his face as he walked to his desk, ignoring the glances the other officers shot him. He'd find that son of a bitch and he'd arrest him this time. And he'd find Fraser. The Canadian was alive. He felt it. He firmly believed in it. He wouldn't allow anything else to surface in his mind.

A low whine made him look down on the floor. Diefenbaker, who Ray had picked up at Fraser's apartment, gave him a quizzical wolf look. Vecchio had explained to the deaf, but lip-reading, animal what had happened while they had driven over to the precinct. The thought of leaving the wolf all alone in the apartment hadn't settled well with him.

"Don't worry, Dief," he said with a small smile. "We'll find him. He isn't dead, I just know it."

Diefenbaker settled his head between his paws, looking mourningly at the bustle of feet all round him.

Ray sighed deeply. He felt just like that. He wished he could hole up somewhere and forget the world for a while. Somehow he felt responsible for what had happened. He shouldn't have let Fraser go into the warehouse alone. It had been a mistake.

"I'll find him," he said more to himself as if to anyone else.

Diefenbaker growled an encouragement and Vecchio smiled humorlessly, sitting down at his desk. After five minutes of aimlessly shuffling reports he looked at the wolf, who watched him with soft, brown eyes.

"How about a walk?"

A questioning whine.

"To the donut shop."

A definitely positive bark.

Ray grinned. "Then let's go. I need a coffee." _Something that isn't as lethal as the brew here in the precinct._

The wolf and Ray left the precinct.

 

* * *

 

Susan Scott had stopped the _Gambit_ right along the small quay and turned off the engine. As she walked over to the rear, she discovered that her nameless guest was working on getting the anchor rope fastened.

"Hey, that looks quite good," she told him.

He straightened and smiled a bit.

"How's your head?" Susan wanted to know.

He rubbed his forehead gingerly. "It's empty inside and hurts outside," he answered with a rueful smile. "Where are we?"

"Wind's Fall. Small, cozy, no tourists." She returned the smile.

"I can't remember if I know it," he said, looking at the harbor. "I'm just glad you came by to pick me up wherever I was when you did it."

"We'll find out," she said and motioned him to follow. "But if you've been here before, I think you'd remember. Especially if you paid us a visit in winter. It's like frozen hell here. The lake is packed with ice and we have hellish snowstorms some years."

There was suddenly a very faraway look in the blue eyes of the stranger. He looked like his mind was somewhere else.

"Hey? Hey!" She touched his arm.

 

 

 _Lots of snow._

 _High mountains all around him._

 _The barking of dogs, wind whipping at his clothes._

 _A powdery white landscape passing by him. Snowflakes drifting in the wind._

 _The sled danced over the frozen ground._

 _Shots echoed around him and he ducked. A bullet whirred past._

"Hey? Hey!" His rescuer, Susan Scott, touched his arm, shaking him a bit. "Are you all right?"

He turned to her, not knowing what had just happened. "I .... I just seemed to remember something," he said slowly, touching his head.

He tried to catch the memory, but there was only emptiness inside his mind. The images were gone. Just fleeting pictures of a memory. His past life? But what was he doing in the middle of a winter wonderland, with a dog sled and bullets whipping around him? He didn't know.

"I think we should eat something now. Then I'll get you over to Dr. Gray."

He nodded and followed her off the boat.

 

*

 

Harry's Place was a small, but nice breakfast and coffee bar, serving warm lunch or sandwiches for dinner, too. Susan was greeted by the stocky, grey-haired owner, Harry, and then shooed her protégé over to a table close to the window.

"Same as always?" Harry asked, drying his hands on his apron.

"Yes." She turned to him. "What do you want? Pancakes? Toast? Eggs and ham?"

He frowned, trying to remember if there was something he preferred for breakfast. When nothing came up his mind, he shrugged. "Sounds all good to me." He tried a smile on her and she smiled back.

"Okay, I'd recommend the pancakes. Harry's are marvelous!"

He nodded. "And some tea, please."

"Harry?" she called.

"Gotcha. Pancakes and tea." He grimaced a bit. "What a combination for a breakfast." But there was a smile on his face.

"What did you remember back there?" she asked when Harry had brought her a coffee and a tea for him.

He shrugged. "I'm not sure."

She watched him and he looked into the tea pot, trying to recall anything of what he had remembered. Nothing.

"Okay, forget it," she said. "We'll find a way to get you back your memories."

He eyed her, for the first time really looking at her. Susan Scott appeared to be in her late forties, with a lean figure. She had short brown hair, which was mostly grey now. There were a lot of laugh lines around her lively brown eyes and her mouth. She was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt and a thick jacket. Judging from her sun tanned face, she spent a lot of time outside or at sea.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, startling him out of his thoughts.

"I don't want to be impolite, but you don't look like a fisherman," he said.

She chuckled. "No, I'm not a fisherman. My husband owned a trawler, but he wasn't fishing either. He only repaired them. When he died, I inherited the shop, but since I'm not technically talented, I sold the shop to his assistant. Now I'm doing small services for those in the community, who can't go to Chicago or Milwaukee for one or another reason."

 

 _An airport._

 _Hundreds of people all around him._

 _A bustling city full of life._

 _Fascinated by the skyscrapers and the car packed highways, he looked around. This was new to him. He had never been in a city that large._

 _A car sped through the street, getting between him and -- a shooter?_

 _Someone jumped out of the car, weapon in hand. He returned fire and was answered with several more shots in return. A window of the car splintered._

 

"Hey? Anybody home?" Someone snapped fingers in front of his face. He blinked.

"Pardon?"

"Where were you?" Susan asked.

"I .... something I remembered."

She raised an expectant eyebrow. "And?"

He shook his head. "It's all so strange. Just fragments." He frowned, brushing through his short, dark hair. "Shots."

"Shots?" she echoed? "Like: from a gun?"

He nodded, a puzzled look in his eyes. "Why would I remember shots?" he asked her.

The older woman shrugged. "I don't know. It's your memory. It belongs to something that happened to you. Could it be that you remember what happened to you before you fell into the water?"

"No," he decided quite firmly. "There was a car. I was in a street." He tried to drag more of the memory out of the nothingness in his brain. There was no more.

"That's not much. Do you know where this street is? Which city?"

He was silent for a few seconds, thinking. "A large city. I remember arriving at the airport."

That was the moment Harry arrived with the breakfast. He put a platter stacked with pancakes in front of him. Susan's breakfast was ham and eggs, sausages and toast.

"Thank you, Harry," he said politely.

Harry was a bit perplexed, then nodded. "Hey, you're welcome." He raised an eyebrow at Susan. "Who's your friend?"

"Wish I knew. He's got amnesia," she replied honestly.

Harry eyed him closely, looking at the bandaged injury. "Banged your head, huh? Bad. Ruthie fell down the ladder once and hit her head on the floor. Forgot what she had done mere hours before then." He gave him an encouraging grin. "But she was fine the next day. Just a bump, really. Go and see Doc Gray."

"We will," Susan said.

Harry nodded and returned to his work.

She smiled. "Harry's a nice man. Helped me through my loss of Zach."

He nodded, not knowing what to say, chewing the pancakes, which were really fabulous.

"Okay," Susan went on. "So you are from a big city. With an airport. I was in Chicago yesterday. Are you from Chicago?"

He thought hard. "Doesn't sound like home, really. Well, a bit maybe."

 _An apartment._

 _An office._

"You don't sound Chicagoan. Maybe you visited the city."

He sighed. "I'm sorry, but I don't think this helps, Mrs. Scott," he confessed. "I have only glimpses of what happened in my past, nothing more."

"Susan," she said. "Call me Susan. And I'm pretty sure we'll find out where you came from. Maybe somebody reported you missing already."

He only nodded. Maybe.

 

* * *

 

The van sped along the lake shore street. Hank was driving, careful not go pass the speed limit, but also intent on reaching their destination as fast as possible.

"Wind's Fall," Kim said, reading the information from her computer screen. "Small town 60 miles north of Chicago. The _Gambit_ is registered with the harbor there."

Kerrington only nodded, watching the lake.

"We'll arrive in about an hour," Hank guessed as he passed through yet another small town. There were boats anchored in its harbor, some just leaving. It was still early.

"We can still make it there, finish the job with this Fraser guy and be back in time for the funeral," the woman said, switching off the computer.

"Maybe this guy is already dead," Hank put in and accelerated as they left the town. "I got him at the head."

"He was still very much alive enough to get aboard the _Gambit_ ," Kerrington told him. "I'll believe we're safe when I see his body." The hit man hated loose ends and Fraser was a very loose end. He had connections. People would believe him when he told about the planned assassination of several liaison officers.

"Relax," the Asian woman only said.

 

* * *

 

"Your pupils are equal, the wound looks fine." The middle-aged man with the curly, blond hair looked at his patient. "You've been very lucky the shot just grazed your temple, my friend. Could have been worse."

He nodded. "I know."

"The cold water stopped the bleeding nearly right away, though it looks like it started again when you moved, judging from what Susan told me. But I think you can compensate for the blood loss with drinking a lot of liquids, but no alcohol."

"I understand."

Dr. Julian Gray gave his patient a scrutinizing look. "How bad is the headache?"

"It's getting better, but it's still bothersome."

The doctor nodded. "Mild concussion. Should be gone in a coupla days. I'll prescribe a mild painkiller. If you experience nausea or dizziness, come back to see me right away."

"Thank you, Dr. Gray."

"What about the amnesia, Julian?" Susan Scott asked. She sat on one of the visitor chairs, watching the two.

Gray rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It's known to happen. It doesn't even need a hard bump or a bad concussion to trigger memory loss. Judging from what you told me -- finding him on your boat, all wet and confused -- it could be shock together with the concussion that is responsible for the memory loss."

"And it'll pass?" she asked.

Gray gave the stranger an encouraging smile. "You said you were getting back some memories?"

He nodded.

"Then it looks like it's only temporary. Your mind is already struggling to return what was lost. It's not a bad case of amnesia anyway."

"But he doesn't know who he is!" Susan protested. "That's what you call not bad?"

"He knows how to speak, how to walk, how to count. He knows he's human, he knows the difference between male and female. Do you want me to go on?" He raised an amused eyebrow.

Susan smiled. "No. I get the picture."

"The best treatment for an amnesia is to confront the patient with things he knows. In your case, that's difficult, because we don't know anything about you. But the memory flashes you had where triggered by something, I believe."

Another nod.

"Good. Just relax, don't force anything to come back."

Susan turned to her guest, who was listening attentively to the physician. "Let's go, Stranger," she said with a broad smile. "Maybe we should roam the city to get your memories back. And we still need to go to the police."

He nodded. "Thank you for your help, Dr. Gray," he turned to the curly-haired man.

"My pleasure. "

"Thanks, Julian." Susan waved a good-bye. Then they left.

 

* * *

 

Hank stopped the van at the harbor quay and Kerrington got out. He looked around the cluster of ships, boats and trawler, trying to spot the one trawler he was looking for. It was impossible.

"We'll have to ask the harbor authorities," the Asian woman said at his side.

He chuckled. "Harbor authorities? Don't be silly. In such a small town everyone knows everyone. Hank, look around. Ask anyone if Fraser was here."

Hank nodded and exited the van.

 

* * *

 

"I think you should freshen up before we go anywhere official," Susan told him, looking meaningfully at the blood smeared shirt.

He looked down. There were some dark stains on his left side. "Oh dear."

 

 _He sat on a chair, looking at the ceiling above._

 _His head hurt._

 _His jaw hurt._

 _His ribs were aflame with pain._

 _"Where did you get this scar from?" a female voice asked._

 _A pair of dark brown eyes appeared in his line of view, framed by black curly hair._

 _Images of a glass door appeared. He had jumped through that door._

 _Then there were men. They were beating him up. Then someone aimed at him with a gun._

 

He blinked and the images vanished.

"Another memory?" Susan asked.

He nodded. "Another strange one."

"Care to tell?"

He shrugged. "There was a woman. And a man with a gun. He aimed it at me. It's all so confusing." He looked at her as if she could explain this to him.

"Sounds confusing. Come on. Let's get you cleaned up. Then we can talk to the police. They can get in contact with the Chicago Police Department. Maybe they have a missing person report on you."

"Maybe."

She smiled. "Cheer up. We'll find out who you really are, my friend. Until then: I need to call you something. Any suggestions?"

He frowned a bit. "I don't know. I can't think of a name, least of all my own."

"Then we'll make one up. How about John? Joe? Steve? Harry? Peter? Bill? Ray?"

"Ray?"

 _Ray._ The name struck a cord. It sounded familiar, but it wasn't him. Not really. Somebody else.......

"Sound familiar?" she asked, a hopeful look in her eyes.

"I don't know," he said slowly. "A bit. But it doesn't sound like me."

"Maybe it's someone you know. A friend? Brother?"

"Not a brother," he said firmly, sounding very positive that he had not brother with the name of Ray.

Susan nodded. "Then a friend?"

"Maybe."

 _A face._ He tried to focus on it. The image was gone as quick as it had come.

"I don't know." He rubbed his head, willing the contents of his mind to spill out something. A face. A picture. A name.

"We'll worry about that later. How about I call you 'Jeff' for the time being? My nephew is called Jeff."

He shrugged. "Sounds as good as anything.

 _Jeff...... Doesn't ring a single bell._ He was no 'Jeff'. But who was he? He wasn't a Ray either. He couldn't attach a name to himself _._

 _A phone number._

Out of a sudden thought he went over to a phone booth, picking up the receiver.

"Who you gonna call?" Susan asked, a bit puzzled by Jeff's behavior.

"There's a number," he said slowly, punching in the numbers one after another. "I just remembered a phone number."

"Of your friend? Family?"

He shrugged, unable to tell. The phone rang and suddenly someone picked it up. "Yes," a male voice asked, sounding tired and a bit discouraged.

His memory swamped him there for a second. He clutched the receiver, his knuckles white. Like a tape run in fast forward pictures assaulted his mind. A name stayed.

"Ray?"

There was an intake of breath on the other end of the phone line. "Fraser?" the male voice asked in disbelief. "Fraser? Is that you? Where are you? Talk to me?" The voice sounded urgent, shaking a bit.

"Fraser?" another voice asked and he looked up.

There was a broad-shouldered man standing only a few feet away from him. He stared at the man, while the man on the other side of the phone line still yelled 'Fraser? Where are you?'.

"You know him?" Susan asked.

"You know me?" 'Jeff' asked the same second.

"You don't remember me?" the stranger asked.

"He's got amnesia," Susan explained quickly.

"Oh." A small smile spread over the stranger's lips. "Yes, we know each other. In fact, I'm your best friend, Fraser."

 _My best friend._ Somehow, it sounded wrong, but he couldn't say why. _My best friend. No. Something's terribly wrong._

The face of his 'best friend' just didn't connect with what his mind tried to tell him. He noticed he was still holding the receiver of the pay-phone and the man on the other end was still screaming.

"Fraser? Damnit, Benny, answer me! Are you still there? Where are you? Benny!?"

The stranger raised an eyebrow. "I've come to take you back," he added.

"Something is wrong here," 'Jeff' said slowly, frowning.

"Suit yourself," the stranger said and he reached inside his jacket, pulling out a gun.

Susan gasped slightly and 'Jeff' let go of the receiver, which was still crying out to him with the voice of the other man.

"Let's go," the man said and motioned with the gun.

Both started to walk. 'Jeff' pushed Susan in front of him, getting himself between the gun and her.

"What do you want from me?" He asked. "Who are you? Why are you doing this?"

"Shut up and walk!"

'Jeff's' eyes searched the quay street for a way out. He looked at a pair of small boats, standing on a pole, left there to dry from the new paint that had been applied to them. His mind formed a plan.

The second they passed by the first of the two boats he kicked away the supporting pole. The unsuspecting man with the gun gave a surprised yell as the boat fell on him. His two former hostages lost no second and started to run, Susan taking the lead. They heard cursing and yelling from behind them, where the armed man tried to lift the heavy boat off.

"Could that have been one of the police?" he asked as they ran along the quay street, Susan leading the way.

"No," she answered firmly. "He would have identified himself as police. And I know all the police men here. It's quite a small town."

"Maybe he wasn't from here."

"I don't think he was police. What would the police want from you?" she asked.

"I'm not sure."

She only stopped when she had arrived in a narrow street.

"Where are we?" Jeff asked, not as much out of breath as she was.

It was still very peaceful all around him. Most of the town's people were out on the lake, fishing or whatever they else did for a living here. Susan gestured at a small house close by.

"My home," she explained, still catching her breath.

"Ah." He looked at it. It was small, but looked well-kept. There was a garden in front of it, circling to the left and disappearing behind the house. It looked a bit wild and unkempt. Trees cast shadows along the garden, tall grass was moving in the gentle morning wind. Vines were covering parts of the small fence around the garden and ivy had begun to cover the front of the building. It was beautiful to look at, though it would soon need a hand.

"Don't look too closely," the woman advised with a smile. "I've never been much of a gardener. It was Zach's hobby." There was a sad expression crossing her face for just a second, then she cheered up almost immediately. "Come in."

He hesitated, stopping in front of the wodden, green front door. "Susan, I'm grateful for your help, but I don't want to get you in any more trouble."

She scowled at him. "I'm a grown-up woman, Jeff. I can decide which trouble I want to be in and which not. Now come in."

He shrugged and followed her inside.

 

 

Her house was quite small, with a large living room, a small but well-equipped kitchen and two more rooms, which were the bed-room and a bathroom. She and Zach had bought the house shortly after they had married. It had been a ruin then and both had worked quite hard to make it the cozy little house it now was. The garden had been her husbands She steered her guest -- Jeff/Fraser -- into the large livingroom.

"Who do you think was that man?" she finally asked.

"I don't know. Then again, that's nothing new." He gave her a rueful look.

"He didn't appear to be too friendly, for the fact he claimed to be your best friend."

"So I noticed."

She inhaled deeply, trying to get herself together. "Okay, let's do one thing after another. First we get you freshened up, then we call the police." She raised an eyebrow. "Sit down and get that shirt off," she told him.

"Pardon me?"

He threw her such a bewildered look, she had to laugh.

"Aw, come on! I'm approaching the big five-oh! From the looks of it you could be my son!" She grinned. "Well, if I had hurried up anyway. I'm not the kind of voyeurous woman who's after every male body she can get. Besides, I know how you look already. I had to undress you on the _Gambit_ , lest I let you catch pneumonia." She gave him a mock leer and he smiled a bit, beginning to undress -- at least above the waist line.

Susan took the stained shirt and went over to the bathroom, putting it into the sink, together with a lot of washing powder. Starting the washing machine for a single shirt was no use. Then she went to the bedroom and rummaged through her closet. She found one of Zach's old shirts and went back into the living room.

"Here you go. This was Zach's. I know it doesn't look like much and it's a bit oversized for you, but it'll be better than getting arrested for exhibition." She grinned broadly as she handed over the shirt.

"Exhibition? But I'm not completely naked," he protested, but taking it.

She wriggled her eyebrows. "If you walk around here with only your jeans on, the young ladies in town won't take long to rid you of that."

"Oh."

She burst out laughing at his bewildered expression. "You're really not from around here. Where are you from?"

He shrugged. "Wish I knew."

 _A small town._

 _Dog sleds._

 _Snow storms._

 _He was following someone. The dogs were yapping with excitement as he lined them up in front of the sled._

 _A shot rang and he hurried up, getting ready._

 _Someone yelled and jumped into the front of the sled._

 _"Go!" the other man yelled, brandishing a gun._

 _He called out to the dogs to move as a second shot disturbed the icy snow beside him._

 _He felt the pain in his arm and as he looked down he discovered he had been wounded._

"Another memory?" Susan asked as if she had recognized the signs.

"Yes. I always see myself getting shot at. And there's someone else."

"A friend? A partner?"

He looked helplessly at her. "I can't say, Susan. I just can't say. Everytime I try to grab the image, it dissolves."

"Come on, take a shower and try to relax for just a second. Don't force it. You know what the doc said. You're welcome to use the bathroom. If you want to shower, I can get you a towel." At his look she added: "I swear I won't peek."

 

* * *

 

"What the hell were you thinking?" Kerrington exploded.

"You said to get him," Hank shot back hotly. "I tried just that."

"And lost him."

"We can find him again," Kim tried to calm him down. "We know the name of the trawler and I can get you the address of the owner."

"And then what? He might have already informed the police because this idiot had to mess it up."

Hank's face held a dangerous expression. "I don't have to listen to this," he hissed. "Just pay me and I'm off. But remember: I know about your little operation. I could set the cops on you."

Kerrington stared coldly at him. "You wouldn't dare," he said calmly.

Hank only lifted an eyebrow. "Try me. B'sides, this man doesn't know a thing anymore."

"What's that supposed to mean?" the Asian woman asked.

"He's got amnesia. Doesn't know who he is or how he got here."

There was suddenly a very calculating look on the hit man's face. "Amnesia, huh?"

"That's perfect for us," Kim said. "We can go through with our plan without him interfering."

"He called someone," Hank interjected.

"Who?"

"Don't know. Maybe someone with the police. But even if he did, he didn't get far. I cut him off." He didn't mention that he hadn't hung up the phone.

Paul Kerrington stared out of the window of the van, contemplating what to do next.

"We know where the woman lives," Kim said as if to remind him.

"And I could go there and shoot him," Hank offered.

The hit man nodded thoughtfully, a plan surfacing in his mind. "Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, that would be a good idea."

Hank grinned and took his gun, checking the ammunition. Then he left the van again.

"I know that look," the Asian woman said after the other man was gone. "What are you planning?"

"Fraser will interfere," Kerrington said slowly. "But we will guide him."

"What?"

He smiled a feral smile. "He's just perfect."

"Perfect?" Kim echoed. "For what?"

"An assassination."

"But you just sent Hank out to kill him!"

He still smiled and Kim felt an icy chill creep up her spine. "I did, didn't I? Then it's just fair enough to rescue Mr. Fraser, don't you think?"

She stared at him in disbelief. "But ...."

He held up a hand. "Hank's expendable."

Kim shut her mouth again, shaken by the other man's ruthlessness. Kerrington just picked up a pair of dark sun-glasses and got out a fake ID card from a drawer full of the same. Then he left the van.

 

* * *

 

"We've got it!" One of the surveillance experts of the precinct gave a slip of paper to Ray. "It was a public phone in Wind's Fall."

Ray, his headache still throbbing dully behind his eyes, glanced at the paper, balancing his styrofoam cup of coffee in the other hand. "Wind's Fall? Where the heck is Wind's Fall?"

"About 60 miles north of here. Small fisher town."

The detective frowned a bit. How had Fraser gotten to Wind's Fall? After he had called -- and he was sure it had been Fraser; he had recognized the voice -- and had not terminated the call, the precinct's specialists had been able to trace the call. To Wind's Fall.

"Well?"

The voice made him flinch and he looked up. Welsh stood before him, looking expectant.

"Looks like he's in Wind's Fall, sir," he said.

His superior frowned, just like he had done so. "Small town," he then said. "How did he get there?"

"I don't know. But I intend to find out." Ray started to leave.

"What about Kerrington, Vecchio?"

He stopped again. "Not much, sir. Some of my contacts tell me he's really back in town. He's made connections to his old friends and partners. He also contacted Cantworth, as we know. Cantworth is a bombs expert and I don't want to think about what he might have planned."

"Me neither, Detective. Let's hope we find Fraser before he does. If Kerrington knows he's alive, he will do anything to kill him, believe me."

Ray nodded, intent on not letting anything happen to Fraser.

He had been shot in the warehouse.

He had fallen into the lake.

Now he was in Wind's Fall through only God knew which ways.

Ray remembered the slightly confused and hesitant voice over the phone. It hadn't really sounded like the Benton Fraser he knew. The voice was the same, but .... The Canadian seldomly displayed such hesitance -- as long as there were no women concerned, who wanted only one thing. Something was wrong, Ray decided. Something must have happened.

"Come on, Dief," he said to the wolf. "Let's go and see what Benny's doing in Wind's Fall."

He left the precinct, followed by the wolf, climbed into his car and minutes later was on his way to Wind's Fall exceeding the speed limit by ways.

 

* * *

 

Susan had given him a large towel, and after he had taken a hot shower, he felt a lot better. Now he toweled himself off, looking into the mirror, studying his reflection. A pale face with a beard shadow looked back. A normal face. Nothing extraordinary. A face in the crowd. He had blue eyes and his hair was quite short and very dark. It looked almost like a military cut.

 _An explosion. Close by. Water fontained up in the lake. Dynamite, he decided. Someone was fishing with dynamite._

 _Shots. Someone crumbled down beside him, empty eyes staring up at him. He knew the man. A name surfaced. Cantworth._

 _There was another explosion and he was sailing head first through a window, landing two stories below in the vegetables of a Chinese street shop._

 _He felt pain explode in his head. He broke through a window and hit the surface of the water down below. A ship passed through his line of view._

 _'The funeral," a voice said. 'He'll kill them all. Westside Cemetery.'_

 _Everything hurt and the world blurred around him._

He blinked and turned away from the mirror, drying his hair.

"If you're looking for a shaver, try the drawer," Susan called from outside the bathroom.

He looked into the drawer and found the shaver. "Thank you," he called back and began to shave.

When he was finished he entered the livingroom he discovered that Susan had changed, too. She smiled at him as he exited the bathroom.

"Feel better?"

"Cleaner," he confessed.

She eyed him closely. "Well, you are looking good, I have to confess. Any more memories?"

He shook his head and sat down on the couch. "No. It's all so strange."

"What?"

"Everytime I have a memory flash it has something to do with ..... violence. Someone is shooting. There are cars speeding through alleys and streets. Explosion. Dogs and sleds..... Snow ...."

"Sleds?" the woman echoed. "What do sleds have to do with it?"

He shrugged. "Listen, I don't know who I am, but I could be a criminal for all we know. Everytime I see a flash of my memory it's something violent. Guns, explosions, fire ..... I could be dangerous."

Susan looked at him with a strange look in her eyes. "Maybe," she said slowly. "But I don't think so. Even if you are, we have to take the risk. You can't go around without the most important part of knowledge in your life: your identity."

He looked at her, helpless and confused.

"The man you called, who was it?" she asked.

"I'm not sure. I remembered the number, but I ...." He stopped.

"And the other guy, the one with the gun; he called you Fraser. Is that your name?"

 _Fraser._ It didn't ring a bell, but it sounded more familiar than 'Jeff'.

 _'Fraser? Damnit, Benny, answer me! Are you still there? Where are you?'_ The voice of the man he had called echoed through the emptiness in his mind. A face tried to surface, but disappeared into nothingness again.

"Maybe."

He stood again, walking over to the phone that was sitting on top of a table. The number he had dialed came back and he was tempted to try and call again. He rested one hand on the device. _Maybe I should call_.

"I also remember something about a funeral," he said slowly.

"Funeral? I've to confess you've got weird memories, Jeff. Very weird."

He smiled dryly. "So do I."

"Well, what about the funeral?"

"It's today. Chicago. Westside Cemetery." He frowned in concentration. "There are people there. Important people. Something is supposed to happen there." He massaged the bridge of his nose.

"What?"

He looked lost again. "That's what I can't remember."

"We should go to the police" Susan decided, watching him.

"I don't think so," a male voice said and both looked up.

In the doorway from the hallway to the livingroom stood the same man they had fled from at the quay. He was holding a gun in his right hand and there was a cruel smile on his lips.

'Jeff'/Fraser made a quick decision. He took the phone, which he was still resting a hand on, and threw it at the armed man. The man gave a yell of surprise and held up an arm so the phone wouldn't hit his face. 'Jeff'/Fraser took the chance and tried to disarm the man. But he wasn't in top shape to start with, still a bit dizzy and tired from the wound, and the man punched him in the stomach. He gasped for air and doubled over.

"Run!" he yelled at Susan, who stood like mesmerized. At his command she turned on her heels and fled the room.

"She won't come far," the attacker said. "But I'll take care of you first." With that he lifted the gun and aimed.

There was a shot.

'Jeff'/Fraser expected to feel the pain of the hit, but there was nothing.

Like in slow motion the attacker keeled over and landed on the floor with an audible _thump_. Then a man appeared behind him. He was dressed in a business suit and wearing dark sun-glasses. He was holding a gun. The newarrival knelt down and felt for a pulse on the attacker's neck. Then he put the gun away and took the glasses off.

"Hello, Fraser," he greeted him with a smile. "How are you? We've been quite worried."

 

* * *

 

Wind's Fall really wasn't much to look at, Ray Vecchio decided as he parked his Buick close to the harbor, squinting into the light of the sun. There was one main street, directly at the quay, and a few side roads. The houses were either one or two storeys high, mostly old and looking like out of a postcard collection. Fisher nets were hung up to dry all along the quay road. Small boats decorated the spaces between one net and the other. Ray guessed that the few dozen houses was all there was to the little town. No tourist attraction in any way, except maybe for a spectacular sunrise over the lake. He grimaced. _Yeah right. Think about such a thing now._

He had called ahead to the local police station, trying to find out if Fraser had popped up somewhere; no one had heard anything about a Canadian from Chicago, but they had promised to keep an eye and an ear open.

"Now, where do we start searching for Fraser?" Ray asked, his question aimed at the white wolf sitting by the car.

He had taken Diefenbaker along for two reasons. One was that the wolf might find a trace of his master, the other that he didn't want to leave the animal alone at home. Who knew what the wolf might chew on or where he would leave balls of hair.

Diefenbaker barked, looking around. Though the town wasn't big, Ray didn't know how long it would take to find Fraser. He didn't even know if he was still here. The call and the sudden silence on the other end of the line had frightened him. He decided to walk down the quay road and ask everyone he met.

He didn't meet many people. The ones he encountered had no idea who he was talking about. Ray stared at the small harbor, at the cluster of ships, willing Fraser to be here. He had called from Wind's Fall. Surveillance had traced the call and was positive he had called from a public phone of the small town.

"What now?" he asked Diefenbaker.

The wolf looked down the quay road, barking. Ray followed his line of view and groaned. There was a coffee shop. Diefenbaker trotted down the road.

"Fraser, you wolf is a junk food addict," Ray grumbled and followed the wolf.

 

 

Harry Taylor, the owner of the coffee shop, watched the wolf curiously as Diefenbaker devoured a chocolate donut. It was his second donut Harry had given him after the white wolf had stared at them so hard it was difficult to ignore what he wanted. Ray decided to present Fraser with the bill for keeping his wolf happy. Then again, maybe not. The Canadian would get a fit if he knew that Diefenbaker ate all that 'unhealthy food'.

"My brother-in-law's mutt loved sweet stuff, too," Harry said, looking at Ray. "Tina, my sister, always warned him that the sugar is bad for the animal. He never listened."

Diefenbaker whined, looking pleadingly at Harry, trying to convince him to donate another donut to a poor, malnutritioned wolf.

"No," Ray commanded and looked sternly at the white wolf.

He growled and gave Ray the cold shoulder, padding over to the large window to the harbor front.

"Harry, I'm looking for a friend of mine," Ray addressed the owner. "He called me from here, but forgot to leave an address where I can pick him up."

"Someone from Chicago?" Harry asked.

Ray shook his head, then took a sip from his coffee. The stuff was damn good and he wished he could take a barrel of it with him to the precinct. It might increase his odds to survive for the next few weeks. The coffee at the precinct was lethal.

"He's only staying there. He's Canadian."

Harry frowned. "Haven't seen many new faces around here lately. Susan brought a guy with her. Nice guy."

"Could you describe him to me?" Ray wanted to know.

"Well, dark hair, blue eyes, looking a bit lost and confused. Had a head wound. Incredibly polite and very nice."

"That's Fraser," Vecchio decided with a grin.

"Oh, and he lost his memory," Harry added as if in an afterthought. "Susan said as much."

"What?" Ray nearly spilled his coffee. _Fraser? Lost his memory? What kind of sick joke was that?_

"Yeah, bump on the head or something. Didn't look too bad, but that doesn't tell anything. My Ruthie, that's my wife, didn't even have a large bruise when she hit her head. Nevertheless she lost some time. Susan took your friend over to Doc Gray."

"Who's Susan?"

"Susan Scott. She said she found him on her trawler." Harry polished the counter.

"Where does she live?" Ray demanded, setting down the cup.

"12, St. Paul's Road. You're a good friend of him?"

"Yeah, he's a really good friend of mine. Can you tell me how to find her place?"

After Harry had mapped him a way to St. Paul's Road Ray left the coffee shop again, followed by the wolf, hoping that Kerrington hadn't already found Fraser.

 _Amnesia! Damned! Fraser, what are you getting yourself into all the time?_

 

* * *

 

"I'm working for a security service?" Fraser -- the name really sounded more like him than 'Jeff -- looked at the man walking at his side. He didn't know where exactly they were heading, but he still went along. He was so confused.

"Yes. It's an international security service and you're one of our best, Fraser. Why are you asking? Is that a joke? What happened?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I lost my memory. Who are you?"

The other man looked shocked. "You don't know who I am? I'm Philip Harrows, you boss and friend. We've known each other even before you came to work for us."

"I can't remember you," Fraser said honestly.

"That's bad news, Fraser," Harrows said, stopping beside a van and opening the side door. He made an inviting gesture and Fraser climbed in. He was greeted by an Asian woman.

"Don't tell me you forgot Kimberly, too," Harrows said after he had closed the door and sat down.

Fraser looked at the woman. No memories, no flashes of sudden insights. "No," he confessed.

Harrows sighed. "Okay, let's try and get you up to date. Your name is Ben Fraser. You've been with us for almost five years, working all over the world, but mostly Canada. You're Canadian, by the way."

 _Canadian money in his pocket. Snow, dog sleds, bullets flying around._

"Your current assignment is to assure that the funeral of the American liaison officer to the foreign consulates goes by undisturbed. There have been threats that a terrorist wants to kill all those high ranking diplomats today at the funeral.

 _The funeral. A bomb._

"I seem to remember bits of that, yes," he muttered, frowning and rubbing his aching head.

"You disappeared yesterday afternoon after you told us you were investigating a possible suspect. You also mentioned that you wanted to meet someone who might have information. We didn't hear anything of you and got worried," Harrows went on. "We traced you here. What happened?"

Fraser looked around the very well equipped van. "I see flashes of someone. He's shooting at me. And then I'm waking up on a boat." He looked helplessly at Harrows. "That's about all I can remember. Then this man you shot tries to kill me. Why?"

"Because you've gotten too close to the actual assassin," Harrows explained. "That guy I shot was after you to ensure that we won't get the information you have. The funeral service is tightly protected, but if someone manages to smuggle in a bomb after all ..... It would be an international disaster."

Fraser nodded. He could imagine. "Who is this assassin?"

"We don't know. Before you went to meet your contact, you said you had the name of a professional hit man and his number, but you never said anything else."

 _Ray. A phone number. Somebody calling his name._

"Ray," he muttered.

"We have to go," Kimberly interrupted. "We have barely enough time left to reach the cemetery in time."

Harrows nodded. "Whoever the guy is, we know he's coming. We'll be ready." He gave Fraser an encouraging smile. "Don't worry. When all of this is over, we'll get you to a hospital. You'll get the best medical treatment there is."

He only nodded, but he was worrying. Something didn't add up here, but he didn't know what it was. Something was wrong. There was a memory that wasn't yet ready to surface.

 

* * *

 

"Half an hour! Missed him by half an hour!"

Susan watched the Chicagoan detective as he strode around the livingroom, trying not to step onto the space where the man had died. The body had been covered by a blanket and the police of Wind's Fall was taking notes and photos. The coroner would come by soon. There wasn't one in this small town.  She had run straight to the police and reported what had happened. The officers had accompanied her home and then secured the scene of the crime. She felt a bit queasy, looking at the blanket covered corpse -- lying in her house, in her living room. She hoped she could get the dead man out of here as fast as possible.

Detective Vecchio had shown up only minutes after the Wind's Fall police, demanding to know what had happened and where the heck Fraser was. He was a tall, lean man with dark hair and a considerably receding hairline. There was a bruise right on his forehead. Deep worry lingered in his eyes, she noticed, and he appeared to be nursing a headache, judging from the two aspirins he had popped into his mouth.

He was accompanied by what looked like a large, white dog. She guessed it was some half-breed Husky or something, judging from the overall looks. Then again, maybe not. The dog had run around her house, sniffing at several things, whining now and then. She didn't know what it meant.

"Half an hour!" Vecchio repeated, slumping back against a wall, for just a minute becoming still, looking at Susan. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, then, as if he had decided otherwise, let his hands fall to his side again and pushed away from the wall. "Do you have any idea where he could have gone to, Mrs. Scott?"

She shook her head. She had wondered about the same thing. It wasn't that he knew anyone around here.

"No. When the man attacked and he fought back, he told me to run. I did just that."

He ran his hand through his hair and began to pace the living room again. Susan was positive that if he didn't pace he'd burst of nervous energy.

"He was shot in the back," one of the police officers said, looking up from the corpse. He had been examining it in the last minute.

"Couldn't have been Fraser then," the Vecchio concluded, coming over. "From what Mrs. Scott said, he was standing in front of the man. And he doesn't even carry a gun."

The other police officer nodded. "Exactly. But who did it then?"

Both men looked at Susan, but she only shrugged. Vecchio cursed in what sounded like Italian and stalked out of the room. She followed him.

"Detective Vecchio?" she asked.

He turned. "Yes?" he asked sharply, then catching himself. "Sorry," he muttered, closing his eyes for a second.

She only smiled. She knew he was worried, could read it from his whole behavior. "Fraser," she then said. "Who is he?"

He sighed, smiling wryly. "Someone who's always in the middle of some big trouble. A very good friend of mine, too. Damnit, wish I knew what had happened."

The dog whined a bit, looking sympathetic, and Vecchio gave it another wry grin.

"Is it your dog?" Susan asked.

"No, Fraser's. His name is Diefenbaker. And he's no dog, he's a wolf." Vecchio rubbed his eyes. "Your friend Harry down at the coffee shop said he had amnesia?"

 _Wolf?_ Susan stared at the dog, momentarily forgetting that she had been asked a question. Fraser owned a tame wolf? This was getting weirder and weirder.

She pulled herself together and answered the detective's question. "Yes. I took him to see Dr. Gray and the doctor said it was nothing to really worry about. He was already getting back his memory. Very weird pieces of his memory."

"Sounds just like Fraser," he remarked.

"He was talking about a funeral, you know," she added.

That made Vecchio listen up. "A funeral? What funeral?"

"He said it must be important and that he has to go there, because something will happen. He mentioned the Westside Cemetery, Chicago. It sounded very weird."

Vecchio's eyes narrowed. "What? Did he say anything else?"

"He said he didn't know. Then we got interrupted by the guy with the gun."

The Chicagoan frowned. "Thank you, Mrs. Scott. Diefenbaker, come on." He hurried back to his car. Susan watched as he shooed the wolf inside, then got in himself, started the car and drove down the road.

 

*

 

"A funeral? What the heck does Fraser want at a funeral?" Ray asked no one specific as he drove down the lakeside road, his destination Chicago.

Diefenbaker gave a low growl as if he wanted to say that he didn't know.

 _Maybe it's where Kerrington is going. What did the Scott woman say? Something was happening at a funeral? What else than the lowering of the coffin and some mourning could possibly happen at a funeral? Answer: with Benny around, a lot._

He took his cellphone and dialed the precinct's number. "Elaine? This is Vecchio ..... No, I haven't found Fraser yet ..... I need some information. There's supposed to be a funeral at the Westside Cemetery this afternoon. Find out whose it is. ..... Yes, Elaine, a funeral. What else would there be at a cemetery, huh? .... I didn't hear that just now ..... Yeah, and hurry up!" He terminated the call.

"A funeral," he repeated, shaking his head. "Fraser, you get yourself into the weirdest situations."

 

* * *

 

The van stopped a few feet after the iron gates of the cemetery, close to the small hill where the service was supposed to take place. It was a small cemetery compared to others and one where only the high and mighty were set to rest. There were a lot of high and old trees growing between the gravestones and the green was well kept.

Harrows looked through the windshield and nodded toward a cluster of parked cars. "They've already arrived," he told Fraser. He held a hand gun out to him. "Take this."

Fraser took the weapon, staring at it. It felt familiar and wrong at the same time, but he couldn't say why. He pocketed it.

"Let's get going," Harrows ordered. He took a long overcoat and exited the van, followed by Fraser. Kimberly stayed put behind the wheel.

"How do we recognize the assassin?" Fraser wanted to know of his boss and friend.

 _Friend. No, somehow it doesn't seem right. But why? And somehow he doesn't look like my boss._ Another face surfaced. _A sandy haired man with glasses, talking to him, reminding him of his duties ... his duties as ... what?_ The picture dissolved.

Harrows began to walk toward the hill. "We have to look out for anyone suspicious. It could be really anyone." He nodded toward where Fraser now saw a group of people, gathered around an open grave. A priest was talking in a low voice, but they were too far away for Fraser to hear something of what the man said.

"You take the right, I'll keep close to the consuls," Harrows ordered him and went straight to the mourning crowd.

Fraser hesitated for just a second, then began to walk up the hill, too, keeping distance between himself and the mourners. He noted there were a lot of them. Each and every one was expensively dressed, some wearing dress uniforms of their country. There were some soldiers of the National Guard standing beside the coffin as a Guard of Honor. The family of the deceased sat in the front row of the small assembly of chairs, all dressed in black.

 _Shots were fired, but this time not in attack. The Honorary Guard fired their weapons into the sky, thereby honoring the dead. The men in the red dress uniforms saluted._

He shook his head, blinking.

 _Red dress uniforms. Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Canada._

Harrows had told him he was Canadian. But it felt like there was more. He stared at the National Guard, willing more memories to come back.

 _'He was a fine man ...' the priest began, the scenery around him changing into that of a church. There were men in the red uniforms again. He looked down at himself. He wore the same uniform._

A movement caught his eye and he turned, discovering a metallic green car pulling up on the driveway to the cemetery. A man got out, looking around as if he was searching for someone. Fraser frowned. He was familiar, but why? Slowly, he approached the man, careful not to get noticed by him.

 _The face._

 _Familiar._

He stopped, frowning. Why was the man familiar?

 _The man held a weapon in his hand, aiming at someone else. The man holding the gun was the same man he had just seen entering the cemetery. He was shooting. The other man, the one he had been shooting at, dropped dead._

Fraser bit his lip. Was this man the assassin? There were images of a fight, an explosion, grenade fire swamping over him. And this man was always there. He took out the gun, staring at it. It wasn't his gun. The feeling of wrongness increased, but he ignored it. He had a duty here. He had to protect those men and women at the funeral from the assassin sent to kill them.

 _Is he the assassin? Is he really?_

Everytime he tried to think of who else this man might be he got flashes of violence. Harrows had told him that he had found out who the assassin was. He had gone missing searching for him.

 _He turned when he heard the shout. He discovered a man with a gun standing a few feet away from him. He was coming closer. He recognized the face._

 _Then there was only the pain in his head._

 _He hit the water._

 _Everything blurred._

Fraser blinked. The man he had seen before he had been shot -- it was the same man he saw now coming toward the funeral sight. He had to act.

 

*

 

Ray parked his car right next to the entrance to the cemetery, a large iron monstrum. Elaine had called him back while he was entering the outskirts of Chicago, informing him on who was buried here today and who was attending the funeral.

 _Diplomats_ , he thought. _Great! It had to be diplomats!_

He took the mike and called the precinct, reporting in his position and asking for back-up. If there was really a bomb planted here ..... He wasn't a fool and Welsh would have his badge if something happened and he found out his detective had not requested help.

"You," he addressed Diefenbaker, pointing a finger at him, "Stay! No dogs allowed, not to speak of wolves."

Diefenbaker gave a protesting bark.

"No, you'll stay right here. Understood?"

The wolf lay down, sulking.

Ray shook his head, sighing. "How can Fraser stand that?" he asked no one specific. "You're even worse than my nephews when they're at their worst!"

Then got out the car and began to walk up the narrow way to the graves. He took a short cut over the green and suddenly discovered a man standing close to a group of trees, not far away from the open grave and the mourners. The man was dressed in faded jeans and an oversized red shirt, wearing a brown leather jacket. Somehow he managed to look clean and polished even in those old clothes. The only thing missing to complete the picture was the hat.

 _Fraser!_

It was really Fraser! Relief surged through Ray as he came closer, a grin spreading over his face. "Fraser!" he called out. "You're all right!"

"Stop right there."

Ray stared at the gun now pointing at him. A gun, which was held in Fraser's hand.

"Fraser? What are you doing?" he asked, staring at his friend.

"I'm stopping you," the Canadian answered, the gun never wavering.

"Stopping me from what?"

"Killing the diplomats."

"Fraser, what the heck are you talking about? Don't you recognize me?" Ray spread his hands, trying to indicate to the other man that he had no intention of reaching for his gun.

Fraser blinked, but the gun stayed put. "You're the hit man planning to set off a bomb at the funeral today. You were the one shooting at me, trying to kill me in the warehouse yesterday," he then said, but there was bit of doubt in his voice.

"Trying to kill you? Benny, that's nonsense! I tried to help you. And I'm no hit man. I'm a police officer. We're friends, Fraser. Remember? It's me. Ray." _This is a bad dream. A nightmare. My clock will go off every second and I will wake up_ , Vecchio thought, feeling numbly cold inside. Fraser was aiming a weapon at him, thinking he was the enemy....

Fraser blinked again, frowning a bit. "Ray?"

"Yes. Remember! We met when you came to Chicago, searching for your father's murderer. We didn't really hit off right from the start, but we got the guy. You were transferred to Chicago. You're working for the Canadian consulate."

Ray desperately searched for a sign of recognition on the pale face of his friend, trying to ignore the gun which was only a few inches away from his chest.

 

 _He was standing outside a building, wearing a red uniform._

 _Someone explained his duties to him._

 _He was ... a deputy liaison officer....?_

 

Fraser's hand with the weapon wavered a bit. His frown deepened.

"I even saved your life once," Vecchio pressed on, hoping he was getting through. "It was in Chinatown. You walked into a trip wire and set off a bomb. I have to confess it wasn't one of my best ideas, but I shoved you out of the window." He didn't mention that he himself had then spent several days in a hospital bed because of the bomb. "You fell into some vegetable crates."

 

 _'Fraser!' The warning shout echoed through the small apartment._

 _The next thing he knew, he was falling head first through a window while everything behind him exploded._

 _Change of scenery._

 _A man lay in a hospital bed. There was a neck brace stabilizing his neck, his left arm was in a cast and IV lines dripped fluids into him. A heart monitor registered every beat._

 _It had been his fault._

 _He had tripped the wire._

 _And Ray had saved his life. The life of someone he had just met a few days ago. Of someone he didn't really know._

 

Fraser bit his lower lip.

"You don't want to shoot me," Vecchio went on. "You never carry a loaded weapon. You are always telling me you have no license to use one. I think it's a crazy idea, running around with an empty weapon, but suite yourself." He looked closely at the other man. "We're friends. Best friends, well, that's what you told me." He grinned crookedly. "But I believed you." The grin vanished. "Benny? Are you in there somewhere?"

 

 _'Do you have a first name? I can't keep on calling you Fraser if we continue to work together.'_

 _'Benton.'_

 _'No, your first name.'_

 _'Benton.'_

 _'Don't you have a first name or what?'_

 

The Canadian's hand shook and he licked his lips. There was a very confused look in his blue eyes.

"Ray?" he whispered again.

"Yes. It's me, Ray Vecchio. You've been used, Fraser. Someone told you I'm the enemy, but it's wrong. We're on the same side. Kerrington is the enemy. He's trying to kill those diplomats. We have to stop him."

Fraser stared at the gun in his hand. Then he put the safety back on it and held it out to Ray. "Ray," he whispered. There was genuine recognition in his eyes now.

Ray had never felt such relief as he took the gun and put it into his coat's pocket. For once he felt like hugging the other man, but he restrained himself, knowing that Fraser wasn't the one for very emotional outbreaks.

"Hey, Fraser," was all he said, but there was a smile the size of Lake Michigan on his face.

Fraser still looked very confused, then blinked again, his eyes locking on the bruise on Ray's forehead.

"You are hurt," he stated, then his eyes widened. "Did I ....?"

For a second Ray didn't get it what Fraser was asking, then it hit him. "No!" he reassured his friend quickly. "No, you didn't hurt me, Benny. I had a nasty encounter with a grenade."

"A grenade?" The confusion deepened, but there was also relief.

"I'll tell you all about it. Are you okay?"

Fraser's eyes swiveled over the cemetery. "He's here."

"What? Who? Kerrington?" Ray looked around as if he was expecting the hit man to pop up with a large red sign pointing at him, saying 'I'm here. Come and arrest me'.

He nodded. "The contact told me ..." He frowned, then continued. "He told me there would be an attempt to assassinate all the diplomats. With a bomb."

"The National Guard secured the premises, Fraser. No one could have planted a bomb here."

 _'I developed a very flexible material for Kerrington, something you can weave into anything. Imagine someone placing a coat or a jacket somewhere. It's not suspicious, no one would think of it as a bomb. They can search the piece of cloth and would find nothing at all.'_

"Fraser? Are you okay?" Ray asked worriedly.

Fraser nodded. "You can weave it into anything," he recited what Cantworth had told him.

"What?!"

"The bomb can be disguised as anything, Ray," he told his newly found old friend. "Cantworth developed a material that can be woven into cloth!"

Ray's eyes widened in shock as he registered what that meant. "It could be anything!" he finally whispered, feeling his headache return. "We've gotta get them all away from here!"

Fraser only nodded and both ran toward the mourners. Ray went straight to one of the men from the National Guard, recognizing him as the highest ranking one. He held out his badge and explained in quick words what was going on. The man, a Lt. Colonel, nodded briskly, not asking much questions. He issued some orders to his men and they began to evacuate the men and women.

Ray gave the startled priest a push.

"Go!" he ordered. Then he turned to one of the National Guards. "Make sure everybody gets away from here!"

Fraser didn't really register the commotion around him. He was searching for the bomb. It could be anything! The coffin, the flowers, the pots .... Then his eyes fell upon the abandoned chairs. All were empty except for one. A dark overcoat was draped over the back of it. Carefully, he picked it up.

 _Imagine someone placing a coat or a jacket somewhere. It's not suspicious, no one would think of it as a bomb._

"Fraser?" That was Ray. The detective came over, gun in hand, looking at the coat. "That's it?" he asked.

He went through the coat, careful not to disturb it too much. _It's not suspicious, no one would think of it as a bomb._ When he encountered some kind of small box, he looked up. "I've found a detonator," he told his friend quietly.

"Shit!" Ray cursed, holstering his weapon. "What now? Any time to call the bomb squad?"

Fraser peeked at the timer in the pocket of the coat. It didn't look good. "No, I don't think so."

"Damn!"

Fraser looked around, noticing the man walking briskly away, not running. He didn't looked panicked. It was Harrows. No, he corrected himself. Kerrington. He was walking toward a van, which was coming up the driveway.

He looked at the timer again, then searched the immediate surroundings. Maybe .....

 

 

Ray had followed his friend's line of view and started cursing again as he recognized the hit man. Not only did they have a bomb which was going off in the next minutes; Kerrington was escaping too. He turned to Fraser and discovered that he was tearing flowers out of one of the pots at the grave, stuffing the coat inside.

"What the heck are you doing?" he demanded.

Fraser didn't answer, only picked up the pot and looked at the van, which was speeding up the driveway, aiming for the exit. He posed like a basketball player ready to score the winning point, lifting the pot. His lips moved silently and Ray imagined he was counting. No, it wasn't an imagination. He was counting.

"Benny, what are you doing?" Ray yelled.

Fraser didn't answer, simply threw the pot. It sailed in a perfect arc to where the van was driving to, bouncing twice off the ground, then rolling to a stop -- right before the van. The driver tried to evade the pot, but was unable to.

Fraser went for cover the second the pot had hit his aim, pulling Ray down with him. The detective went down with a loud 'ouff', Fraser's weight pinning him to the ground.

There was a loud explosion, followed by a equally loud crash.

Ray pushed Fraser away, getting to his feet and looking at the van. The blue van had crashed into a tree and when he looked more closely he discovered that the front axle had been blown away. The car was a heavily built vehicle, which was Kerrington's luck. The explosion hadn't been able to more than dent the front.

"Nice throw, Benny!" Ray cheered, then ran over to the smoking car, his gun ready.

The door on the side opened and a coughing Paul Kerrington emerged, gasping for air. Ray grabbed him, shoving him against the tree.

"You are under arrest," he began. "You have the right to remain silent ...." There was triumph in his voice and he didn't even try that hard to surpress it as he read the man the Miranda rights.

In the distance there were sirens. A few minutes later two police units had arrived and where taking over. Ray went to Fraser when he had turned over the cuffed Kerrington. The Canadian had freed the Asian woman from the wrecked car. She was unconscious, with a sizable bump on her head and was taken care of by a paramedic. Fraser looked up, his eyes no longer so confused and puzzled. He watched as Kerrington was driven off in the patrol car.

"You all right?" Vecchio asked as they walked down to the Buick, dusting his coat off.

The Canadian nodded. "Yes, I'm all right again. It's all coming back."

Ray grinned with relief.

Diefenbaker shared his relief and joy, but mainly because Fraser was with him again. He jumped up at him, barking and whining until Fraser shoved him down, still patting his neck.

Ray reached inside the car and got out Fraser's hat. He held it out to his friend, his smile still painted broadly on his face. "Welcome home, Benny."

Fraser smiled back, the smile reaching his eyes as he took his hat. "It's good to be back."

 

* * *

 

"So you're working for the Canadian Consulate?" There was genuine surprise in Susan's voice.

Fraser nodded.

She laughed. "I think that's the last thing I'd have expected."

They were walking along the quay road to Harry's where Ray was waiting. Diefenbaker was running around the quay, never too far away from them. Ben had decided to pay his rescuer a visit to tell her what had happened and who he really was. Vecchio had offered to drive him.

Now he gave her a quizzical look. "Why?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I mean, all your memories. Dog sleds, bullets, explosions. I wouldn't connect that to a Canadian Deputy Liaison Officer." She smiled again.

"Well," Fraser tried to explain. "I've not always been in Chicago. Work as a RCMP officer in Canada is like the work of your police officers here. Here I'm helping my friend Ray from time to time with a case, so that might account for it."

"So you called the right person after all."

The Canadian nodded. "Yes." He looked down the road and discovered Ray leaning against his green Buick. Yes, he had called the right person; the only close friend he had in Chicago; someone who had come rushing here to look for him.

"I wanted to thank you for your help once again, Susan," he told her.

"Hey, no problem. It's not often I have handsome Canadians with amnesia dropping in on my boat." She grinned. "You're welcome to visit me once in a while. Try winter. You'd feel right at home."

He smiled, too. "Thank you for the invitation. I really might take you up on that offer."

"Okay, you ready to roll?" Ray asked when they arrived at the car.

Fraser nodded. "I expect Lt. Welsh is still waiting for that report."

"Screw the report. We just tell them we had a fun ride to Wind's Fall to meet your lady-friend here." He gave Susan a broad grin, visibly amused by Fraser's pained expression.

"Ray."

He raised an eyebrow. "Hey, I won't lie to my superior!"

Fraser only smiled wryly, then turned to Susan, who was grinning broadly while she was listening to the two men.

"See you again some time," she said, then pulled the much taller man into a hug.

Fraser was a bit surprised at first, then returned the hug. Then he nodded to Ray. Both men and the wolf got into the car. Ray drove down the quay road and then onto the highway.

"Okay, okay," he said into the silence between them. "Maybe I bend the truth a little -- from time to time."

Fraser only lifted an eyebrow. "You know, you just drove past a stop sign without stopping," he remarked casually, amusement shining in his eyes.

Ray only rolled his eyes heavenwards.


End file.
